


The Greatest Story Ever Told

by Krank



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Headcanon, M/M, Magic, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krank/pseuds/Krank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Merlin’s waiting and Arthur’s return through the eyes of a ten-year-old child.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Story Ever Told

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to get over the pain of losing Merlin last year. I hope this helps. My headcanon.

When I was but a child, I encountered possibly the greatest love story ever to exist on this earth. It’s been years, now, since I happened upon this tale, though I remember it like it was yesterday.

In my small town where I grew up there was a vast lake. The weather was quite often rubbish, though even on the bright days there was always a looming, eerie fog that wrapped itself around the perimeter of the water. It was like a blanket, protecting the lake from outside forces. What those forces were, I wasn’t entirely sure; I was but ten years old. I was young, impressionable, and able to dream up the wildest dreams imaginable. Therefore, at the time I told myself that this lake was indeed a sanctuary and in need of protecting from something or other.

Another part of my vivid memory was the lone stranger that occupied the single bench at the water’s edge. Much like the peaceful fog, he was a fixture in the landscape. He would occasionally stroll up and down the footpath, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, but mostly he remained seated, staring out at the dark, unnaturally still waters. He was tall and frail, with long white hair and a beard to match.

“ _He’s an old tramp, he is!”_

_“I heard he eats children.”_

“ _My mum told me he killed his family and dumped their bodies in that lake. That’s why he sits and watches – so he can relive what he did!”_

Children could be vile creatures. There was no shortage of rumors flying around about this stranger – this _man_. So much negativity settled around him and yet I never saw anyone interact with him. I never saw him around the town, or at the market. If it weren’t for the horrible things people were saying, it would be as if he were a figment of my imagination.

 

It was months from the time I began my secret observation of the magical lake and it’s guardian to when I actually gathered up enough courage and drive to approach this unknown subject. With a small lunch in hand, I made the short trek out to the spot, along the winding footpath, until I reached the bend that ran right alongside the sandy shore. There I was.  
  
There _he_ was.

I marched directly up to him.

“I wondered when you would finally crawl out of that shrub you cower behind,” his voice was deep and rough and momentarily startled me. I clutched my Tesco bag up to my chest, as if my chicken sandwich and crisps was some sort of shield.

“I-I was wondering if I might share your bench?” I stammered, my nerves betraying me.

The old man finally turned his head and stared at me incriminatingly.

“Well I suppose – ‘sa free country.”

I scrambled up on to the far side of the wooden seat, keeping a safe distance from the stranger. I set my bag between us, again using it as some sort of wall to protect me. We sat in silence, staring out at the lake until I couldn’t possibly take it any longer. I may have been wise beyond my ten years, but I was still a restless child.

“What is it that you look at?” I asked, swinging my denim-clad legs back and forth.

“I think it’s pretty obvious what we’re looking at,” the old man drawled, and I could hear a hint of humor in his voice.

“Yes, but you’re watching for something. Waiting, even,” I replied, picking stray lint from my warm knit jumper.

“Well, aren’t you observant.”

“Would you like a piece of my sandwich?”

He gave me a smile.

We were once again cast in to silence, though this time for good reason. He ate slowly and quietly, savoring every bite as if he were tasting chicken for the first time. I couldn’t help but sit and stare, entranced by the odd air that circled him. He was such an interesting character and yet I knew nothing about him.

“How long have you sat here?” I asked, making sure to properly swallow my food before I spoke.

“It’s been many, many years that I’ve been stuck to this lake,” The man looked up and his eyes became distant, as if he were actually watching his memories play out in front of him.

“But you’re not that old,” I picked a piece of browned lettuce from between the bread slices and tossed it aside.

My company threw his head back and belted out a rather jovial laugh, his barking echoing across the landscape. When he had patted the tears away from his cheeks, he turned his body fully towards me. “The flattery is wonderful, though I can assure you, I am-“

“No, you misunderstood,” I interrupted. “Your soul is rather ancient, yes, but your _spirit…_   your spirit is still young. It’s your eyes. My grandfather’s eyes are dim and tired after all the years that he’s seen. Yours, though, are still bright.”

The seemingly elderly man looked at me long and hard, squinting slightly. Finally, he relaxed and reached up to ruffle my brown curls. “You are quite something.”

“My mum says that I am ten going on thirty.”

“You most certainly are.” He let out a long sigh, turning his gaze back to the water. I assumed this was the end of our conversation. I became hopeful when I heard him clear his throat.

“It’s getting quite late in the day, you know.”

I had assumed right.

I slid off of the cold bench seat and retrieved my plastic bag, my crisps forgotten. I hesitated a moment, not wanting our first meeting to end quite yet. I kicked the dirt beneath my trainers and fiddled with my fingers.

“May I come and sit with you again tomorrow?” I asked quietly, fixing my eyes on his long white hair that fluttered around in the faint breeze.

“Well I can’t very well stop you, can I?” His voice was gruff but the smile shining in his eyes as he gave me a wink sent me skipping home, excited to return the following day.

I remember getting very little sleep that night, thinking up all the things that I wanted to say.

* * *

“People in town say horrible things about you.”

“Well, they matter very little to me in the grand scheme of things.”

I was seated once again beside the perfect stranger, this time sharing a tuna sandwich that my mum had made for me. I didn’t tell her about my new friend. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

“They say you eat children.”

At this the man snorted a laugh, almost choking on his bite of food. “They’ve gotten more creative over the years, haven’t they?”

I had finished my half of the sandwich, and gently brushed the crumbs from my clothes. I was quite a messy eater – I still am. I watched as my companion swallowed his last bite, a slightly disgruntled look on his face. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy tuna as much as chicken. I took note.

I watched him as he watched the lake, forever captivated by the slow ripples. The fog was lighter that day,

“Tell me a story!” I quipped suddenly.

“A story?” The man was startled from his trance.

“Yes! Aren’t all old people full of all sorts of stories? Surely you have a few good tales up your sleeve.”

This seemed to take him for a moment. He brought a crooked finger to his chin, his bushy white eyebrows knitting together. He scratched a hand through his billowing wiry beard and cleared his throat. I was expecting a ‘ _when I was just a boy’_ to flow from his lips but what I got surprised me:

“Do you think you could keep a secret?”

I am not entirely sure why he asked me this. At the time I felt important, like I was keeping something treasured hidden inside of my mind. I felt honored. These days I know for a fact that if I had ever told anyone the tales he shared with me, no one would have believed a word. He surely knew that. Perhaps that is why he confided in me.

He told me over my bag of crisps stories of knights and kings, of dragons and sorcerers, of legendary swords and great battles. He told me of a powerful boy, burdened with the weight of the world, who time and time again risked everything he had for some ‘prat’.

The stories were detailed, right down to the sounds of metal clashing against metal and the smell of damp earth in the forests where the fights took place. I would return to the bench day after day, even when it rained, and he would carry on where he left off the day before. At night I would dream about his stories, envisioning a great castle, a happy town, a cold king, and two young men bound together by a tricky destiny.

My companion told of light moments - humor shared between comrades, teasing and banter between friends. He also told of struggle – of tears and loss and betrayal. The hero of the story went through trial after trial, all while hiding whom he really was from the people he cared for.

Finally, the former stranger sitting next to me told me of _love_. I was only ten, though I knew enough about love to understand a little of what he was saying. My parents were in love. Had I ever felt it? At that point in my young life, probably not. I had wanted to, though.

The way he described it could only be described as _magical_.

“It all ended at this very lake,” he said, wiping the salt from my crisps on to his worn pants. “I let someone go, sent them on a journey. Ever since, I have been waiting for them to return to me. I was selfish – while I bound myself to this shore, all the others that I cared for carried on. They carried on and one by one they all faded away, while I remained here, holding on to a hope. Now this person – this _special_ person – is all I really have left.”  

“Wait,” I frowned up at him. “Those stories… They were all about _you_? You had magic, and you fought dragons and sorcerers and creatures and you lived in a _castle_?”

He turned to me, a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

I left the lake that day feeling confused and perturbed. It was all so hard to grasp, so difficult to comprehend. My new friend had lived for centuries like a ghost, haunting the lake in my town. He’d lived such an extraordinary life in the beginning, only for it to end so quickly and so sadly, leading in to hundreds of years of loneliness. I could practically feel his longing in my own heart.

 

The next day I raced home from school when the bell tolled. I finished my lessons in record time and told my mum I was headed out for a walk. It took me half the time it usually did to make it to the lake, because I was so eager to hear more.

As I rounded the bend in the path, though, I stopped short.

The old man was walking gingerly out in to the water, the leather bag he always wore lay forgotten on the shore. At first I panicked, thinking that perhaps he had finally abandoned hope and decided it wasn’t worth it anymore. As I looked on, though, I realized it was something entirely different.

He raised his weak arms before him, palms outward. I could hear murmuring in a language I had never heard. The fog around us thickened, and I found it harder to see what was happening, though I could make out something emerging from the still waters, making small ripples travel outward towards the banks.

It was the figure of a man, and I instantly knew who it was. He was dressed in glittering chainmail and armor, a long sword tethered to his waist. He had blond hair and a handsome face and he looked exactly as I had imagined him. He was _royalty_.

My friend waded further in to the water and as he did he began to shed his years like a winter coat. His old and tired joints loosened and became strong, propelling him more quickly toward the figure ahead of him. His long silver hair evaporated, leaving behind short dark brown curls. With his hair gone I could see predominant ears, and a long pale neck. I remember thinking of how handsome he was.

When he finally reached the man in chainmail, they wasted no time in embracing each other. My friend jumped up and wrapped his legs around the metal-clad waist of the man in front of him, causing both of them to pitch sideways.

“ _Merlin!_ ” A strong, powerful voice shouted as the blond man grabbed him and steadied them both with swift reflexes.

All he got in reply was a jolly laugh.

As time wore on I felt more and more as if I were intruding on something wonderful and private. I took one last look at the two men, completely wrapped up in each other and still very much waist-deep in water, and took my leave. I practically skipped home, my chest feeling warm as I thought about my friend, _Merlin_ , and the gift that had finally been returned to him. All that waiting, all those years… And it had all finally come to an end. He no longer had to suffer. His _prat_ was back.

 

I don’t know what I was expecting upon returning to the lake the following day. I was unsurprised, however, to find that the bench was empty. For a week I kept going back in hopes that one day it would magically be different, but each time I rounded the bend, the same lonely seat waited for me. The fog no longer hung low over the lake, and it had lost its once magical appeal. It had simply become another body of water.

I couldn’t help but feel a little selfish as I realized that my friend had gone. In such a short time I had developed a routine, and I had happened upon one of the most fascinating things I would ever be privileged enough to know. I wanted him back. I wanted to keep hearing his stories, or to meet his lover that I had grown to love myself.

But I never did. He never returned.

Years later, however, as a teenager I caught a glimpse of something. It was fleeting, and it was in a crowded market, but it was undoubtedly him. With his short brown hair and silly ears he leaned towards a cart full of fresh produce. At his side was the tall, broad figure of his blond companion, holding his hand tightly. They blended seamlessly in to the crowd, with their modern clothes and the relaxed air around them. No one but me would know that one of them was a King and the other his powerful sorcerer. People would know that they were in love, though, and I decided that that was enough.

Right before I was dragged away by a friend of mine, the brunette lifted his head and sent a bright smile in my direction. It was a knowing smile, and it finally gave me the closure I needed to carry on with my life and let him carry on with his. Even though it had been years, he still remembered me just as I remembered him, and that was what mattered most to me.

I told my own kids his story, mostly so that it could live on long after I was gone, but also because the story was so tragic, and yet it had ended so beautifully. It was truly the greatest story ever told.


End file.
